Battle of Bramham Moor
The aftermath of the Battle of Bramham Moor, where the wounded and survivors are scattered across the frozen moor, grappling with defeat and loss. A wounded knight is being tended to by a squire, whil
Setting
Bramham Moor, West Yorkshire, England. A vast, open moorland covered in patches of snow and frozen heather, with scattered trees and low hills. The ground is uneven, frozen solid in places, with patches of mud where the snow has melted. The battlefield is strewn with bodies, broken weapons, and trampled banners.
Characters
Wounded Knight
primary
A noble knight in his late thirties, with a strong but now weakened frame. His face is pale from blood loss, with deep-set eyes shadowed by exhaustion. A jagged wound mars his left side where his mail has been torn open, and his right leg lies at an unnatural angle. His once-proud bearing is diminished but not broken.
Squire
secondary
A young boy of about 14 years, with a slender frame and a face still round with youth. His hair is tousled and matted with sweat and dirt, and his wide eyes are filled with a mix of fear and determination. His hands are small but calloused from years of training and service.
Survivor
secondary
A grizzled common soldier in his late 30s, with a wiry but strong build from years of campaigning. His face is weathered with deep lines around his eyes and mouth, and a jagged scar runs from his left temple to his jawline. His hands are calloused and stained with dirt and dried blood.
Priest
background
A middle-aged clergyman with a gaunt, weary face, deep-set eyes shadowed by exhaustion, and a thin frame wrapped in heavy robes. His hands are rough from years of labor, yet gentle when administering rites. His posture is slightly hunched from the weight of spiritual burdens and the cold.
Dialog
Wounded Knight
Good lad... take my ring to Lady Eleanor at Alnwick. Swear this by your honor.
Squire
I won't leave you, sire! The wound—it can be bound!
Survivor
Leave off, boy. That's a death wound. You want the king's men finding you weeping over a Percy lion?
Wounded Knight
By my troth, honest man... gold for the boy's safe passage. My sword's worth twenty groats.
Survivor
Aye, and my neck's worth more. Take the blade and run, lad. North before dusk.
Squire
Sire, please—
Wounded Knight
As God wills... go now.